


Bless This Broken Road

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU: Salvation, AU: Soul Survivor, Angel Sam, AngelGraceStealing!Sam, Angst, Bobby Comes to Wrong Conclusions, Demon Dean, Do-Over, Established Relationship, Family, First Time, Hurt Sam, Hurt/Comfort, Involuntary Genderbending as Unintentional Disguise, M/M, Mention of Past Suicidal Tendencies, Mistaken Identity, Motherhening Ellen, Pre-Apocalypse Winchesters, Protective Sam Winchester, Romance, Sigils, Vessel, Wards, Wincest - Freeform, Winchesters Coming to Wrong Conclusions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-02-24 16:30:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2588378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's desperation to save his black eyed brother leads him to a path he didn't think he'd ever tread on again. The angels said that the future cannot be changed, that daring to hope is futile. Meeting his parents had further proven that theory. But Sam's already in this position, in this time and he's going to damn well try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this story has been swirling in this brain of mine for quite some time now and I've been putting out fliers O_O for anyone to adopt the bunny, but no one seems interested so I'm going to try my hand at this. Hardly a writer, but I know a thing or two about the basics, so hopefully this doesn't end up as a totally "bad fic" from what others so like to call plots not to their liking.
> 
> This is AU from Season 1's Episode 23: Salvation and Season 10's Episode 3:Soul Survivor.
> 
> Umm, give it a chance? :(

Sam's looked up on all kinds of lore on demons, of Cain and Abel, what little he can find on them. The Mark. He's read the Bible cover to cover, scoured through witchcraft books in hopes of finding viable tracking spells. Sam hasn't left a phrase unread, a page unturned, killing humans and torturing demons for any scrap of information that might bring him closer to his brother. Fat lot of good that did him.

Dean's been leaving dead bodies in his wake. So much for giving Crowley the First Blade to throw somewhere preferably at the bottom of a volcano thinking it's a foolproof plan in separating his brother from the damned thing. Dean has been the exact opposite of thrilled finding out Crowley sold him out. Sam can only imagine what went down between them when Crowley can't even hold on to one stupid blade. Now if only his brother had enough sense to actually ice the irritating son of a bitch.

Sam's seen the corpses, the fatal wounds causing the deaths, a whole lot of jagged edges like teeth reminiscent of the First Blade. Dean's given in to the call of the Mark that much is obvious.  Dean's sloppy though. Too much blood and gore, like he's trying to prove a point, or maybe he's burning out whatever humanity Sam stabbed into him from the injections. Try as Sam might, to his frustration, even with all the foreknowledge in his arsenal, he can't pin his brother down. Dean's a demon for several months now. It won't surprise Sam that Dean's learned to travel via Black Smoke Express, possessing unsuspecting victims, keeping an eye out on Sam, making sure he's always ten steps ahead.

Since Dean's escape from when he left him tied down in the dungeon where he's supposed to stay put, Sam's gone from bad to worse. He knows this, is aware how much he's crossed the line from what makes him human a few months past. He's no different now from the things they hunt in his desperation to get his brother back. Maybe he is a monster. Maybe he's worse than the demons, hell, worse than the very same one he's trying to save. He had no qualms sacrificing an innocent man's life or the ones after that. It should bother him. The old Sam probably would.

Funny thing is stuff such as humanity and good old conscience matters very little to him these days.

It almost feels like being soulless again.

Half a year's passed without any solid lead on Dean. Oh, he's heard through the grapevine about Crowley's uncontrollable "pet", but dialing up the King of Hell proved to be unproductive, and Sam doesn't have the patience to deal with a demon acting like a jilted lover.

" _Squirrel's hiding Moose, he doesn't want to be found. But feel free to get back to me if you do find him. He's bad for business and my peace of mind. Tell you what, I'll even help you tie him down this time. The sooner he becomes human, the better for all parties involved."_

Sam's ever curious brain wonders if his blood's still running in Crowley's meat suit. The demon's always been a pain in the ass, but his fascination with Dean, how invested he became ever since the trials after getting pumped full of Sam's blood, even now, sounding like a wounded pup when his brother's name is mentioned. Crowley's _feelings_ on the matter of his brother almost seems like it came from Sam.

Yeah, not dwelling on that.

Hannah, Cas' sister or girlfriend, hasn't stopped sending Sam these disapproving looks in regards to his poor life choices since the day they met. Sam likes to think it's merely something to do with his recent actions, no matter how unsettling that sounds, but he knows deeply rooted judging eyes when he sees one. Looks like being Lucifer's vessel will always and forever alienate him to the rest of Cas' family. Even Gadreel rode shotgun at one point, the same archangel that let the devil in at the Garden of Eden, the one that killed Kevin and— long story short, Sam's angel associations happen to always be with the biggest bag of dicks. Doesn't matter. Sam's not asking for her approval anyway.

Castiel on the other hand has gained the title of resident den mother.

"Sam. You need to eat. I can no longer stand idle by while you slowly kill yourself through neglect." 

Sam's reply is a simple pursing of lips, a slight head tilt. He's acknowledging the fact that not bothering to eat unless his body's practically screaming for it may not be one of his better ideas, but he has no time for something as trivial as food.

"Not now Cas." Sam says, concentration fixed on the Sumerian book he's currently immersed in. He can't afford to get distracted. He's been going over these three pages worth of spell casting for weeks. Sam's beginning to think this might actually work, the answer to at least one of his problems. "And you're one to talk. Your body's giving out on you. Again."

"I will not be stealing any grace." came Cas' near automatic, indignant response. "Not at the cost of a brother or sister's life."

Cas has multiple siblings out there, some he's only met in passing before the Fall no doubt. What he feels for his brothers or sisters can't hold a candle to what Sam had gone through in his lifetime after losing his brother and thinking he's lost him for good. The hell hounds, the too many Tuesdays, six months of his personal Hell afterwards, the thousand years in the Pit, Purgatory, Metatron. Cas' relationship with his siblings is nowhere near what Sam and Dean share. He can go do the smart thing and steal grace from one that's out for his blood.

"You'll die." Sam shoots back matter of fact, cocks his head minutely to see the angel's worn out, tired face. Sam can empathize. One of the perks of actually having a soul despite feeling relatively numb and indifferent to everything else that doesn't concern Dean. If there is one thing he hated about being soulless was his complete disregard of his brother. He doesn't ever want to be that kind of unfeeling bastard again.

"I will deal with it when the time comes." Cas answers stubbornly just as Hannah comes into view, stone-faced as ever as her gaze sweeps over to Sam then to Castiel. Sam barely holds back a snort at the blatant adoration in her eyes. Sam might feel generous one of these days and lock them in an angel proofed room until they sort out their big explosive incestuous feelings. Hey, that totally worked for him and Dean.

Sam runs a hand across his face, sighs.

Oh, he made himself sad again.

"Castiel. A word?" Hannah says, one quick look at Sam, a slender hand resting along Castiel's arm.

Sam makes a shooing motion when Castiel remains to look at him with soulful, pleading, puppy eyes. Sam swears the angel's learned it from watching him. "I will bring sustenance later in the day. I'd appreciate if you would eat even just a small portion from it, Sam."

Sam probably gives a nod of ascent but he's not quite certain, not when he's still elbows deep in Sumerian Literature.

 

* * *

 

Sam's studiously scribbling notes and symbols down on a legal pad of paper when Hannah's suddenly storming into the library, too weak herself from the Fall and prolonged stay on Earth to do their fancy Angel Airline thing, pale, frantic and begging him to save Castiel.

He stands there uncomprehending until Hannah clears up what she's asking of him. And then it clicks. Hannah acts a lot like how Castiel had been during their first months together, all good little soldier and a stickler for following orders; it registers to Sam too late that she must be just as unwilling, probably even more so in taking a brother or sister's grace with her bare hands even if it means saving Castiel’s life.

It falls on Sam to hunt down an angel, contain its grace in a vial and force feed it to Castiel.

Of course, this is his life now. Demon brother still MIA, reluctant host to a deteriorating, stubborn headed angel, while also dealing with his jealous, bipolar-ish sister slash girlfriend. Sam needs an Advil, or ten.

Castiel’s impending death inevitably cause Sam and Hannah’s relationship, barely tolerating each other at best turn to conspiring together in a day’s time.

“You realize going after an angel’s going to paint a pretty big target on my back, right?” Sam points out his eyes challenging as Hannah paces in front of him. Castiel’s his friend and he understands more than anyone the desperation to save the most important person in one’s life, Dean Exhibit-fucking-A, but he’s not about to lift a finger unless Hannah’s going to make it worth his while.

She’s been keeping her distance all this time, like Sam’s something she’s afraid of catching, like a virus or a contagious disease. Now Sam’s gotten over any kind of hurt feelings to what angels think of him, but it still ticks him off whenever someone judges him just because he’s Lucifer’s vessel. Like it’s a free pass to being a dick. Or a grade-A bitch.

Sam’s been busy tracking Dean’s whereabouts and he’s not about to accept a request that would most probably have him end up at the wrong side of an angel blade. Without a concrete means of protection, something to ensure Sam’s not going to get every available winged bastard after him once he offs a specific target, he’s not going anywhere.

It can be argued that he might be slightly suicidal when it comes to bringing Dean back in the sense that he doesn’t care much what happens to him afterwards as long as Dean’s cured. But that’s just it. He’s willing to do just about anything for his brother. Castiel? Not so much.

Eventually, Hannah relents and reluctantly acknowledges that Sam is no good to her dead. Woman knows her priorities, Sam can respect that. It’s not even a question. He _will_ die if he goes out unprepared and unprotected. Cole’s another matter that he tries not to think about.

“I have something I can give you. It will cost me greatly. My grace…” Hannah starts but then trails off as if pained only to shake her head, face steeling back to its stone-cold soberness. “It will help your chances for success. I will help you Sam. I will do what I can. All I ask is your promise that you will not fail. That you will try to the best of your abilities of bringing that grace to Castiel.

Hannah’s fingers are kind of digging pretty hard on his bad arm Sam could barely resist a wince.

“Yeah, okay.” Sam answers jerkily as he tries to shake Hannah off. The angel seem to realize then that she’s got her hands all over Sam and recoils. She abruptly pulls back as if burned, as if she’s just touched something absolutely revolting. Sam sighs, resigned.

“Apologies.” Hannah tries but it falls flat. She doesn’t sound apologetic at all. Sam lets it go.

What Hannah deems neccessary to give Sam basically has to do with carving Enochian symbols into his soul which as it turns out is a bitch to sit through and almost hurts as much as being the sole recipient of Lucifer's wrath. Sam's never been more relieved once Hannah's got her arm pulled back and away. Once the spasms and pain begin to subside, Sam soon finds out she’s given him the equivalent of angelic X-Ray vision as soon as he opens his eyes. It allows him to see past the vessel and into the grace inside, a metaphorical switch he is able to turn on and off at will without getting his eyes burned out, which Sam finds, he really appreciates.

Sam takes one look at Hannah's grace and is momentarily captivated. The beauty of it, and its radiance, how it shines with pure white light it practically steals his breath away. However, one glance at Castiel's stolen grace and Sam's never screwed his eyes shut so tight so fast. Sam's never looking again unless Castiel's rightful grace is back for good. That _thing_ currently residing in him is a stuff of one's worst nightmares. And he's seen some pretty messed up crap.

Later in the day, Hannah makes compelling points of how Sam needs to be cloaked beforehand. It is going to be no use if he can tell which humans has angels riding shotgun when he’s just as recognizable. He has to give it to her. She’s damn efficient if nothing else. Sam appreciates the thought, though he knows that it has nothing to do with his safety, but the success of the mission.

If his first attempt at stealing grace fails, it’s going to be very difficult for him to move forward with further attempts and Hannah won’t risk it for Castiel’s sake. Sam's a very recognizable face to angelic folk, his soul like a beacon broadcasting the centuries Lucifer's tortured him it’s near impossible to hide his true identity.

Keyword, near impossible. And with an angel quite high up in the command chain to back him up, Sam's assured Hannah won't mess it up.

Sam continues to find a way to track Dean as Hannah busies herself with preparing what he'll need to ensure his safety. She makes hex bags to hide him from anything supernatural, demon and angel alike. Sam knows how to prepare one himself but Hannah seems more than content to do something with her hands. She then throws some kind of supernatural cover over his mangled soul to make him undetectable as Sam. Next, she paints complicated sigils and wards on his skin and underneath meant to waylaid perception, a disguise of sorts in cases of physical encounters. Awkward bonding moment if there ever was one. Sam's never felt more uncomfortable around a woman while naked. 

Sam’s anti-possession tattoo makes a comeback as well on a safer place, less chances of it getting burnt out.

It was a little too late when Sam realizes just exactly what Hannah's sigils and wards are meant to be used for.

The younger Winchester feels the exact moment the change register, the full reality practically punching him in the face. He topples over and free falls onto the floor because his whole goddamn center of gravity’s suddenly shot to hell, his clothes practically dragging him down.

Hannah’s turned him into a girl, literally, the younger Winchester realizes dumbfounded. 

The girl looking back at him from the mirror is a blonde teenage girl who doesn't look any older than fifteen. Though his eyes remained its exact shade of hazel, there are now freckles dotting the bridge of _Sam's_ nose similar to that of Dean’s in his pubescent years. Jesus Christ. That mouth is also Dean’s, or at least nearly alike Dean’s. Sam pokes both forefingers at his cheeks and tries a smile, notices his left cheek still dimpling. 

Sam realizes with a jolt that the girl looking back at him looks plenty like mom during that short stint they had back in the past. 

He gets the strongest urge to scream and kick whatever he can within reach. His current appearance is like a combination of Mom and Dean and a little bit of Sam and Dad thrown in. He’s certain that Hannah’s either developed a sense of humor or decided to torture him on the side.

If Mom didn't die and their lives didn't get fucked to all high hell, he can imagine this kid would be how their little sister would look like. The thought only further caused his depression to spiral and Sam spent the next days, hours, every waking second snapping at Hannah for making the change without running it by him first.

But the infuriating thing about Hannah is she’s matter of fact. She honestly doesn’t understand or see why Sam would have an issue with his current disguise. Aside from the fact that she could pass up as a little Winchester sister, she was well, little and how is Sam supposed to go around stealing grace if he's this small?

“You wanted to find your brother. Would this not be a more effective approach in the case that you do get close enough? Same as the rogue angel, Dean will not be expecting this little girl to be a trained hunter, let alone his brother, won’t you agree?” Hannah says, looking at Sam like he’s four.

Humans and angels alike she points out tend to view females as the weaker gender, especially the young ones, they often get blindsided by this false sense of security. Eventually Sam relents, accepting the logic as sound and doesn’t waste precious time dallying about.

Sam’s forced back to rigorous training, to adjusting to his new body as fast as humanely possible. He takes comfort in the fact that Hannah’s assured it is not permanent. It’s surely not the first time he’s been cursed into the opposite sex, one such situation was when Dean managed to piss off a witch at one of their hunts in Idaho and Sam had been in cursing range. He’d been stuck in that form for nearly three weeks.

His mission to find a substitute angel’s grace to replenish Castiel’s own went without a hitch. It was almost too easy if he was to be perfectly honest. He might not like it, but its proven to be effective. Sam later on agrees the disguise can stay until he finds his brother and gets him treated. Sam’s decided to steel himself for a lifetime of girl jokes once his brother’s no longer black eyed.

The least Castiel could have done once he's back on his feet, newly acquired angel grace pumping through his veins is give Sam a deserved thank you. But what he does instead is lock himself in his room like a sulking teenager after outright staring at Sam’s new appearance far longer that what he’s comfortable with. Predictably, Hannah follows him in his man-angsting over a sibling’s loss of life leaving Sam with his own share of grief. 

 

* * *

 

Things went back to normal after that, or at least what counted as normal for Sam.

He resumes reading up on everything he could get his hands on. Nothing has worked so far however. Or maybe they did work but his brother in demon form probably has the ability to sense what Sam's attempting and is getting out of dodge at the first possible opportunity.

Summoning Dean as a demon using the usual means, like what they do with Crowley ain't doing crap either.

The only one that seems to at least have a fighting chance is a blood-calling spell. Something that would force Dean to Sam's doorstep using the link between them as soulmates, brothers, lovers, blood. But the spell would take a lot out of Sam as some penance or sacrifice and pretty much render him useless after completion which— not good.

If it works and Dean appears, he's as good as dead. If it doesn't, he'd end up month after month searching for another solution. Time that he does not have if he is to have any chance of saving his brother. Now, Grandpa Henry's type of blood-spell might work, but Sam can't risk ending up who knows how many years in the future and getting stuck. There's always feeding on demon blood to power himself up and go head to head with Dean, but Sam doesn't trust himself to have any sense of self left once he's managed to get hopped up on that addiction.

A few more weeks pass. Sam’s by then seriously reduced to considering the demon blood option in his desperation when it hits him. And it hits him hard.

Castiel had been human once. But he'd taken another angel's grace to elevate himself to winged status however temporarily. It dawns on Sam like a first breath from being underwater too long that he was, still is the true vessel of an archangel. If there is anyone who could withstand forcefully sucking in angel's grace to a human body, it'd be him. He is meant for it, heck, designed for it. How could he have missed that?

The answer's been staring him in the face all along. If it goes according to what Sam hopes it will, he'd have to take in grace strong enough to aid him in capturing, technically, the new Father of Murder. Dean won't have a chance of escaping again. Sam won't let him. Sam will be prepared; will keep close watch over him, never take eyes off his brother until he's done with his treatments. 

Unbiddenly, he sees Dean’s proud big brother smile in his mind's eye as he compliments him, _‘damn right my baby brother is a genius’_  all the while making fun of his enormous brain. Dean then tries to give him a noogie and fails, like always, and Sam’s laughing his ass off, calling Dean a midget. They’re thrashing and kicking on the floor, trying to one-man up each other, acting like the twelve and eight year olds that they really are. Dean cheats and wins over the playful scuffle by pinning Sam to the floor, straddling his waist, eyes bright and breathtaking smile in full view before leaning down and kissing him.

_"I won, bitch."_

The kiss is chaste, light. Dean's clearly teasing him by holding back. Sam huffs, laughs and pulls him closer instead.

_"C'mere, jerk."_

It's only when he sees a blurry figure by the library's entrance that Sam blinks back to the present, realizing tears are pathetically running down his face. He hastily wipes them away, finally seeing Castiel clearly. With a tight, pained smile, Sam says some lame excuse about something and leaves.

He doesn't want to be around Cas in these moments of weakness, has always hated seeing the pity in his friend's eyes. 

 

* * *

 

An hour later and Sam's already obsessing over angelic literature like a mutt with it's new chew toy.

Sam knows that there's always the chance that gulping down angel grace might kill him instead. He remembers Anna's grace finally returning home, how she had been blasted away to god knew where. Recalls the exploding humans volunteering to be vessels that couldn't withstand the sheer power of an angel's grace during Bartholomew's failed attempt at ruling over humanity after the Fall.

Sam should be thinking over these very valid points, but can't bring himself to care. Because. Not important.

Dean is.

And frankly, Sam's at the end of his rope. If there's even the smallest chance of this working, he'd grab it with both hands, not sparing a thought of what it might do to him. As long as he finds Dean, cure his brother, that's all that matters.

Sam of course would like to stay alive afterwards, granted he doesn't go nuclear upon angelic grace consumption, long enough to chew his brother out for being the biggest dumbass jerk in the planet for taking on the Mark to himself without thinking of the consequences.

Sam knows what a hypocrite he is. With what he's hoping to carry out, he's no different from Dean at all.

He'd been righteously pissed at his brother at first for making the deal with an angel in order to save his life. But in all honesty it all really stems down to the fact that he's had enough of Dean and the deals he's always so eager to make to protect Sam, because it always more or less ends up in Dean compromised or worse and ultimately leaving Sam alone. And no, he can't live like that again.

He'd been driving to a cliff when he hit that dog before meeting Amelia. He bolted. He’d been that close to giving up.

What he said to Dean, about what if their roles were reversed and it was Dean dying and the only way to help him was to go behind his back, keep secrets, letting the fear of losing his brother rule over him, how he'd give Dean the courtesy to make the decision for himself. Consumed with the feelings of betrayal and anger that he'd been, Sam realizes only belatedly how untrue it is. It's the same situation and there's no way Sams's going to do the _'right'_ thing of _'respecting'_ Dean's wishes. Especially since his brother's a demon and doesn't know any better.

And really, since when did Sam ever manage to keep a straight head when his brother's welfare, his life was on the line? 

After the commitment they made to each other inside that church during the final trial, after he'd thrown Gadreel out and Dean later asking for forgiveness to which Sam gave it without preamble, after the promise they made of a new start, Dean's going to be so pissed if Sam manages to kill himself while he's black-eyed. Then turn that anger and hatred inward for failing Sam. Growing and festering.

Sam really hopes to hell, (bad choice of words) that he doesn't end up dead after this whole ordeal is over.

They were just beginning to be brothers and lovers again.

Days later, with papers upon papers of his research notes crammed into the pages of his journal and a bag full of supplies slung over one shoulder, Sam leaves Hannah and Castiel inside the bunker and ventures to find himself an angel to gank.

Hopefully, Hannah won't mind too much Sam borrowing her angel blade.

 

* * *

 

 

The thing about angels is that you can’t summon one unless you have a name. And summoning one with an incomplete name is a death wish since the call’s routed to angel radio with everyone possibly tuning in. So for self-preservation, especially if you’re a Winchester, better not tempt it. But Sam has a name and a grudge for anything that represents Tuesday, not to mention that his brother is a Knight of Hell, and only an archangel should have enough juice to at least restrain one.

Sam’s given up in trying to ‘talk’ to his brother into fixing things. He's going to drag him back to the bunker kicking and screaming even if it’s the last thing he did. Thus, archangel grace is needed.

Sure he’s got the wards and the sigils and the hex bags to his advantage, but that will only be of help to an extent, until his brother realizes it’s Sam in the preteen get-up. And Dean’s not stupid enough to fall for the demonic handcuffs the second time.

Castiel himself admits that even if he had his rightful grace intact, he wouldn’t be strong enough to contain a full powered Knight of Hell, especially one that is now considered a replacement for Cain. And with Cas’ current condition, he's not going to be of any help.

Hannah and Castiel have an understanding about not wasting Castiel's recent stolen grace, which means no angelic whammy.

Whatever. Sam can do this by himself.

In the five days following Sam’s epiphany about angelic graces and what use it can be to him, he’s stacked up on reading material of what he can find on archangels instead. After a substantial amount of words were read on said angels, Gabriel, Michael, Lucifer, Uriel, Raphael and a bunch of others he’s never even heard of, Sam’s focus zeroes in on the Archangel Samael.

It sounds like Samael and Lucifer are one. A good number of passages seem to point to that direction, too many similarities to be coincidence. It was only after Castiel found him poring through the books yet again, coupled with a tired, resigned sigh, I strongly advise against this course of action, my thoughts are not a secret to you in this matter, Sam did it become clear to the younger Winchester.

According to Cas, he’s had run ins with Samael before, and that the archangel is very likely still alive. Cas didn’t know the angel from Michael back when he was still solely an Angel of Thursday, but when Castiel had been in his campaign for power against Raphael, it was found out that Samael had deserted his post and his duties as the “Bringer of Death and Destruction” long before the Apocalypse was put in motion.

One of the reasons why everything went down to shit, the pages in the holy scriptures all but burning was because he wasn’t there to watch over the End of Days and make sure it ended the way it should as instructed by the Word of God. Cas had searched for him, asking for help in his fight against Raphael’s forces, but Samael flat out refused and told him in no exact words to, “Leave me the fuck out of it.”

It would seem being the “Venom of God” and carrying out Father’s less favorable orders, The Flood, Sodom and Gomorrah, The Plagues of Egypt, the Holocaust to name a few, Samael knew early on when their Father bailed on them. After millennia upon millennia of being a loyal son, even taking up the mantle of the “bad guy”, put in the same league as his brother Lucifer solely because of the nature of the duty he was given, all he got for his trouble was an absent Father and a buttload of hate and negative association to his name.

In his disappointment and anger, Samael left Heaven while everybody else was still oblivious of a Godless world.

He is alike to Gabriel in that sense. Leaving the family drama.

Sam has half a mind to think Gabriel put him on a time loop on a Tuesday because his brother represented the day and gets to laugh at the irony. Samael was probably aware what his younger brother had been up to. The fucker probably even found it funny. 

Even without the need for angelic grace, Sam can easily imagine wanting to find the angel and gank it on principle.

 

* * *

 

 With the last symbol on the angelic trap drawn, Sam begins the incantation to summon the Archangel Samael.

Halfway through the chant he is reminded of the times when he and Dean managed to outstmart and trap Gabriel, Raphael, even Cas when they were acting like absolute dicks. Sam needs to stop looking over beside him and expect to see his brother’s self-satisfied smirk and that proud smile focused on Sam. He doesn’t need the distraction of these memories now of all times. It might as well be his death sentence.

Sam reels his focus back on the ritual at hand, words that would sound gibberish to anyone else almost reaching the last paragraph when the ground starts shaking and the abandoned warehouse’s walls where he is in begin to rattle. Sam really fucking hates an archangel’s dramatic entrance. He’ll never admit it out loud, but his anxiety skyrockets every time from equal parts terror and rage.

“Well, this is a surprise. Here I was enjoying a night out in Vegas only to be rudely called by none other than Sam Winchester.”

Sam’s stomach bottoms out, blood running cold at the casual way his name leaves the man— angel’s mouth. His hold on the angel blade in his hand turns into a white knuckled grip. Sam feels small. He's fucking five foot five, wrists looking so damn slender they look easy to snap. 

He can't help but be intimidated. 

Hannah assured the wards are strong, that other than her and Castiel, no one should be able to tell it is him. What the fuck happened?

“Fancy stuff you got going on there dollface.” Oh great, a British-Scottish sounding archangel. Another Balthazar. Just what he fucking needed.

"Don't call me that." Sam hisses, then promptly shuts up, looking stunned at his lack of tact.

The angel chuckles, before clapping it's hands, looking genuinely amused. “My, my, my. Testy, testy. I like it.” It says and winks. Sleazy's the first word that comes to mind.

Sam feels his mouth drop open the slightest at the angel's attitude. Is this douchebag seriously flirting with him? And what's with the get up? This guy, this vessel in front of Sam isn’t exactly the type he imagined for someone like ‘Samael Harbringer of Destruction and Death’ to be possessing. For one, it wears too much pink. "Samael?" He feels the need to clarify.

Blue eyes, blonde hair, lips that appear to be perpetually pouting replies. “One of my many names. But you can call me Cam if you want. After all, Lucy's been inside you in every sense of the word. You're practically a brother-in-law.”

Sam tenses up despite the iron-clad hold he's drilled on himself where emotions are involved when the Devil's mentioned. Shudders wrack up his spine. He does not want that reminder from his time spent in the Pit. Ever. 

The archangel looks around him, one eyebrow raised. "No holy oil?"

"I don't need one." Sam says the word through gritted teeth and lets the satisfaction of seeing minute fear cross the angels' eyes wash over him. He's always prided himself in his ability to adjust and adapt with lightning reflexes. Growing up like he and Dean did, no one can bullshit their way through any situation better than the Winchesters.

Once again he feels grateful to Hannah for providing him the necessary knowledge on how to immobilize an angel in place with methods supposedly only privy to their kind. Holy oil involves too much fire for any close contact to be efficient.

He tips the angel blade upward in full view, then points said blade on the equivalent of a Devil's trap, but much more powerful currently entrapping the archangel. "All I need is just this, and that, and you staying still being all pretty."

There's growing anger in the archangel, the feel of it making the hairs on Sam's neck stand on end, palpable in the air. "Really now?"

"Yeah." Sam answers, allows a devilish smirk to spread the corners of his lips. Probably looks creepily disconcerting on an innocent young girl's face. But it doesn't stop Sam from grinning, too much white teeth from a shark-like smile. "Really." 

"What do you want, Winchester?" Samael thunders, the ground quaking as suddenly furious eyes focus on Sam.

"Just you." Sam replies at the same instance the archangel's expression freezes in the throes of death as Sam slices through it's neck. Beautiful warm grace flows out and into the vial he's holding on his other hand that's tipped over the clean cut. It's swift, deadly and precise. 

It's also all very anticlimactic.

With the last bit of angelic grace contained, Sam lets himself release the breath he doesn't remember holding, the male vessel dropping dead by his feet. He looks down at pale blue-grayish eyes and tries to muster up feelings of remorse, but can't find none.

"Well, that was easy." Sam says, turns around, takes four steps forward and that's when the shots ring out.

Sam sucks in a painful gasp of air, frozen, shocked. The pain is so blinding, so excruciating, he drops the angel blade, the vial shattering to the floor from nerveless fingers. Angelic grace swirls like a tempest directly in front of his bleeding form as Sam falls to his knees.

The younger Winchester only has a second to look up at his attacker before white light explodes and consumes his world.

Fucking Cole.

 

* * *

 

There’s pain. Too reminiscent of his time spent on the Pit. Of Lucifer taking his sweet time in tearing Sam apart piece by agonizing piece, while Michael watches with sadistic glee, as Adam’s screams for them to stop add to the blood pounding and trickling from his ears, from his own screams, of gross sobbing and pleadings of no more and never getting any reprieve.

Lucifer’s concentrated anger never wavered.

But unlike the Cage, the pain comes and goes. It’s the one thing Sam holds on to. That this is not the Pit. That those days are long past gone.

One minute the anguish is too much, the next is a breath of respite.

Sam doesn’t understand what is happening. He can't see. He can’t open his eyes. He knows nothing. Can't make sense of anything. All he feels is there’s something inside him that’s hurting him. It wants to get out. It doesn’t want Sam. It’s wrong and too much and not his. But Sam knows he cannot afford to let it go. That letting it escape could very well mean his own life on the line.

There’s a desperation in him, realizes it’s his own inner voice chanting, ‘Don’t give in. Just a bit more. It’s going to be over soon.’

He can’t die. Can’t let it win. Can’t allow this to be the end. More importantly, he can’t fail Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean. 

He opens his eyes and feels warmth and light coil around his soul like acceptance, like family, like love.

Sam takes a sigh of relief and the world turns dark once more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so here's chapter two. I know nothing much happens and the POV is not from someone we would normally want from in a Sam/Dean fic. But it had to be done to build up uhhh, suspense? I guess. *scratches head* I don't know. Anyway, thank you for being patient with me. Comments are always loved and appreciated. Please be gentle >.>

**On the drive back to the Roadhouse**  
**May 12, 2006**  
**9:20 PM**  

Ellen Harvelle, owner of Harvelle's Roadhouse drives down a long stretch of road from a last minute supply run. It's a busy night. Demonic activity has gone up so hunters are congregating in the bar, nursing beers and desserts while going through their journals and blogs. They ran out of cheese sticks of all things. Had to go out and secure food for the grumpy masses. Her daughter, Jo Harvelle's voice is in her ear, asking how close she is to home when a figure suddenly appears and drops down to the ground and out of sight in front of her speeding vehicle.

"Jesus Christ!" Ellen yells in surprise and steps on the brakes, knee jerk reaction more than anything as she tries to avoid collision. The beat up 1982 Ford Fairmont sedan she drives screeches to a stop before hitting anything solid. Ellen braces for an attack, any sudden movement from a ghost or something else supernatural. When nothing happens, she goes for the rock-salt loaded shotgun beneath the car seat, a silver knife and a flask of holy water from the glove compartment. She may be retired but that's no excuse to not be prepared.

"Mom? What happened? Are you okay?" Jo's panicked voice comes through the line.

"Jo, I'm gonna have to call you back." Ellen replies in measured slow tones, a silent shout out to her daughter that she's in a situation that could potentially be dangerous and would need her to focus. She can't afford to get distracted or it could end south.

"Okay." Jo acknowledges her mother's unspoken request; Ellen can almost see her baby girl struggling to keep a calm facade. "Be careful."

"Don't I always?" Ellen answers and hits end.

The seasoned, retired hunter leans against the backrest, releases a deep exhale before pushing the car door open. She steps out gun cocked, wary gaze shifting from side to side as she inches toward the fallen figure half hidden in darkness, the other half visible in direct line of the car's headlights. The down-turned body is smaller than an average person, or specifically a full grown adult.

Ellen catalogs the clothing. Black hiking boots, dark blue jeans, brown coat. Then she sees the hair. It's the same color as Jo's, but straight and tied up in a ponytail. As a mother, worry and fear for the girl's well being settles very fast at the pit of her stomach.

She crouches down, pushes the body forward until the figure ends up lying on its back. Her breath catches, eyes wide as she tries to comprehend what she is seeing. The girl's skin is alight with a strange bluish-white glow that seems to seep _into_ her. Her eyes are half-open and Ellen sees the exact same glow in them, before it gradually disappears, the girl's mouth parting lightly with a soft sigh like relief, head lolling to the side.

"What in the world?" Ellen mouths perplexed. Of all the years she's hunted, she's never seen anything like it.

Ellen's gaze fixates on the girl's face with something akin to disbelief. She's young, way younger than Jo. Fourteen, fifteen, tops. What's she doing in the middle of nowhere in the godawful hours of the night? Ellen shoulders the shotgun, examines the dark stains on the powder blue shirt she's wearing. She inspects the soft cotton material, sees a total of three fresh entry marks like bullet holes and curses.

The kid's been shot.

Quickly, she checks for wounds knowing full well stopping the blood flow has to be top priority. But upon closer inspection, Ellen only ends up getting even more perplexed when she finds none. The kid's clean, although she does find three silver bullets coated in blood on the ground.

She pats her down, finds a small binder filled with writings, papers, notes on the breast pocket of her blouse, a wallet on the hidden front pocket of her coat which she intends to get back on later. She turns her over a little and discovers an anti-possession symbol inked on her hip.

Those things usually only come in charms. Bobby's got few of those for protection. Ellen's gotta admit, tattooing the mark on skin is smart. Hard to lose something that's literally attached to the body. Makes one wonder why aren't there more hunters applying the same approach.

Ellen fingers the metallic handcuffs hanging off her belt next and is surprised to make out the carvings of a devil's trap in them. Clever. She reaches across her back and ends up pulling out a .45 from the waistband of her jeans. Also, a hex bag. Ellen's gaze darts down to her boots and sees the handle of what looks like— she yanks out a knife, sees strange markings on the steel.

It's glaringly obvious what she's stumbled upon here but a part of her is having a hard time accepting it as fact.

She goes through the motions. A hunter, retired or otherwise is never complacent. The kind of paranoia that comes with the life. Ellen sprays the girl with holy water. Cristo. Standard procedure. Hunter Basics 101. No hissing, no black eyes. She's didn't think so either. Touches the silver knife to the girl's skin, no burn, no sizzle. Peels back her upper lip to look for fangs to reveal plain healthy teeth and gums.

Ellen rubs a hand over her mouth, sits back dismayed. This girl, this _child,_ no doubt about it, is a hunter.

Of course, the glowing skin, the blood and unmarred flesh still makes a lick of sense to her, but that's a problem for another time.

"Well, I'll be damned." Ellen mutters under her breath, feels anger rise up on the girl's behalf at how young she's been shoved into the life. Forced to grow up too fast no doubt. Ellen looks up, surveys the general area, darkness, trees, and just the road ahead. But there's no telling what could be out there. Where there is a hunter, there's always a monster. They need to haul ass before anything comes growling from the trees.

"Come on. Up and at 'em." She says, lightly tapping the girl's cheeks to wake her up, but getting no response. "Sweetie, you hear me?" She looks to be relatively unharmed, so why wasn't she opening those eyes? She hopes she didn't hit her head. No bumps though. So that was unlikely. Either way, Ellen hoists her up with a grunt and supports her docile form to the passenger side. As soon as she's settled, Ellen covers her with a spare jacket and starts the drive. On the way, she calls Jo and instructs her daughter to prepare the bedroom for a guest to which Jo voices out her concern.

"Found her on the road. Already checked. She's clean." Ellen answers as she makes a turn. "I'll tell you once I'm back. Tell Ash to get his drunken ass ready. I haven't gone through anything yet. But I found stuff on her that he should be able to use to ID her and track her family."

Jo says her affirmative and tells her to be careful. The need for assurance always goes both ways.

The call ends and Ellen glances to the side, promptly feels heart tighten as she sees blood pool at the corners of the kid's mouth and trickle down her nose. Fuck. A hoarse, pained grunt is what she hears next, watches with bated breath as the young hunter slowly lifts her head, eyes half-lidded and squinting into the road in front of her. She turns her head, squints even more at Ellen and coughs, gravelly and wet, blood sliding down her chin.

"Hey. Easy, easy." Ellen says, reaches out before she could fully think on it to rub soothing circles on her shoulder. "Don't strain yourself, kiddo."

"Ellen?" She asks, sounding like her voice box is close to shattering. Ellen can't help but stare, mouth falling open slightly hearing her name leave the child's lips when she knows for a fact she hasn't met her before in her life.

"You're… here." Another groan, followed by a low, wobbly question of, "Am I dead?"

"No, you're not. Not on my watch." Ellen assures. She's thought of bringing her to the Roadhouse, but with the way she's bleeding through her mouth and nose, the hospital is quickly becoming a number one option. Sure it's an hour's worth of drive but, "I'm taking you to the hospital."

"No. No… hospitals. M'okay." She feebly protests, convincing absolutely no one.

"You don't look okay to me, kid."

"M'not a kid. Need to… find… Dee."

"Dee?" She clarifies, then nods to herself, feels like she's getting somewhere. "Is that your dad?"

The kid's going to end up choking if she snorts on top of everything else coming out of her. "M'dad. You're funny… Ellen."

"How do you know my name?" Comes the curious question.

"M'gonna pass out." Her head lolls forward and to the side, falling unconscious yet again before Ellen can get any answers. Her name for starters.

Ellen drives, biting the inside of her cheek and glances every few seconds to the side until she's had enough and pulls the car over. She opens the console box and roots around until she finds a handkerchief, douses it with a bit of the holy water and proceeds to tilt the girl's face to clean her up. Ellen soon realizes that without the blood staining her, she's already stopped bleeding and there's that weird glow again. Christ on a cracker, that can't be normal.

But she checks out.

Ellen doesn't like the confusion. "What am I going to make of you?" she sighs, tucks a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. A few seconds pass, fingernails dancing across the dashboard when she lets out a heavy exhale, makes up her mind. "Alright. So you're no longer in immediate danger. I'm taking you to the Roadhouse then. The sooner we find your family, the better it's going to be for you and my peace of mind. And I need answers."

Decision made, she steps on the pedal and revs up the engine for home.

A short distance away from where Ellen find the young girl is another figure sprawled haphazardly on the damp ground, lying face down on the dirt. Though bleeding and weakened, the young man struggles to pull himself to his feet, the grudge he holds in his heart for one Dean Winchester and very recently for his monster of a younger brother more than enough to fuel him on.

 

* * *

 

Jo is waiting with two other hunters that she recognizes as the couple Tamara and Isaac in front of the Roadhouse as she drives in and parks the car. Jo quickly approaches the right side of the vehicle, peers through the window and gives her mom a nod before her gaze slides back to the unconscious girl. Like this, Ellen can almost mistake them for sisters. "Mom, she's just a kid. You sure she's a hunter?"

"I sure don't want her to be, but everything seems to be pointing to that direction." She replies, and then tilts her head by way of greeting at the other hunters approaching as soon as her foot's touched ground. "Isaac. Tamara. Good to see you both." She says, and then is enveloped in a hug by Tamara, and a firm handshake from Isaac.

"We were wondering where you were when we came in." Tamara says as Isaac lines up a little ways behind her, protective husband stance. Bill used to do the same around her, a thought she doesn't want to revisit now not only for the ache but she has other matters to address first.

"Had to do a quick supply run. Ran out of cheese sticks. Would you believe it?" Ellen replies with a shrug. She's met with a chuckle, then jogs to the other side of the car, the couple following suit. Jo's looking back at her with worry, which in turn spikes up her own. "What is it?"

"That's blood on her shirt." Jo says, lips pursing, a small frown creasing between her eyebrows. "Hers?"

"Not really sure." Ellen answers honestly, and receives questioning stares. "I checked though. She doesn't seem hurt. Physically at least."

"Looks fresh." Isaac observes as he crowds behind Jo. "God Almighty. She's just a child." There is definite sadness and anger in his voice.

Tamara stands beside him, their hands intertwining as they watch with pained eyes. "Why is she not waking up?" she asks worriedly.

Ellen can understand the concern. Jo's shaking her awake but just like Ellen, there is no reaction. She's either in deep sleep or something's seriously gotten messed up inside her. The hunter's thoughts revisit memories of the drive back home. The few seconds the girl had been awake, the bleeding that didn't really last long, the bluish-white glow and the fact that the kid seems to know her when she has no idea who she is. But she's heard enough. And there is familiarity there. In her voice. Like she knew Ellen on a personal level.

Isaac and Tamara are good people, but for some reason she can't quite place, she feels the need to protect the girl, hide what makes her a little ways off normal even from people that she would trust with her own life. Ellen's honestly fretful what if she starts emitting that light again around the others.

Ellen shakes the troubling thoughts off and motions to the back entrance. The sooner they are in private quarters, the better. "She's fine. I've checked. Not a scratch. Look, we should take this inside. Get her settled. Jo, I'll need a clean pair of clothes." Jo readily nods, goes to the backseat to take the bag of food Ellen went to all the trouble of getting before standing side by side with her mother, gaze darting back to their unconscious guest.

It's Isaac that nods first breaking the standoff, Tamara mirroring the response. "I'll carry her." He volunteers.

Ellen appreciates the offer. She turns to her daughter. "Where's Ash?"

"Setting up his gear, that and he says he needs at least ten minutes to get the alcohol fumes off his brain." Jo says with an eyeroll.

They make quick work of bringing the girl to the bedroom upstairs, settles her on the bed. Isaac excuses himself out of the room leaving the two women to gather around the girl who still remains out like a light. Jo comes back from going through her closet to find anything that could fit their out cold visitor and hands them to her mother. "This should fit her quite nicely."

Ellen says her thanks and starts to peel off the ruined shirt as Jo watches by the edge of the bed.

"Is that?" Tamara starts just as Jo nearly bounces off the bed to take a closer look.

"That's an anti-demon possession symbol." Jo says in awe, but then closes her mouth at the chastising look Ellen sends her way.

"I'm well aware." Ellen says, then nods at Tamara's troubled look. "I know kids this age shouldn't even dare think of getting inked. But it's a practical use of the symbol. Not that I'm allowing you to get yourself a tattoo, Joanna Beth." She snipes at her daughter who looks mutinous.

"Oh right. It's totally okay for others for the sake of protection. But not me? How is that fair? Like you said mom, it's practical."

"I am not having this conversation with you." Ellen holds her ground. "Now go check up on Ash and see if he's ready yet and man the bar."

Jo looks ready to argue, but Ellen knows she knows better than to make a scene in front of others. "Fine."

Ellen watches her stomp off.

"You really shouldn't be too hard on her, Ellen." Tamara finally speaks as soon as Jo's out of hearing range.

"Kid's got a death wish. I already lost my husband Tamara. You lost your daughter. You know how where I'm coming from. I don't care if she wants to be closer to her dad, or be like him, some stupid sense of hero-worship. She's my daughter and she doesn't get to become a hunter as long as I have any say in it." Ellen gripes and already feels closer to the other woman when she simply nods her head and says that yes, she understands. Ellen feels an outright bitch however for having mentioned Tamara's daughter in her outburst.

"Sorry, I didn't mean…" She starts to apologize, but Tamara cuts her off mid-sentence and shakes her head. They let it go.

"You need help?" Tamara asks. Ellen can really use the help, but she doesn't want to hold Tamara up strictly than what is necessary. She should get back to her husband. She's inconvenienced them enough. Surely, they have their own business to attend to.

That, and she's worried if Tamara stays any longer, kid's gonna start bleeding and from the looks of it, healing again.

"No, it's fine. I can do it on my own. Go back to Isaac. Don't want to hold you up in here." Ellen assures with a smile and a nod. Tamara rests one hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze and a pat before pulling herself up to her feet and makes her way towards the door.

Left alone, Ellen begins to carefully, but swiftly change the kid's clothes. She pulls off her boots and places the knife on the nightstand, she then shucks the coat off, followed by the red-black plaid blouse, before fully getting rid of the blood-stained shirt. An eyebrow rises when she sees the bra that she's got on is none of that flowery girly shit. It's a simple black sports bra, front clasped. She debates for approximately twenty seconds whether or not she should get rid of it as well. Kid's going to be itching when she wakes up if she didn't get a full change of clothes.

She goes for the jeans next.

Once she's done with the task, Ellen's impressed the kid slept through _all that_ , she starts patting her clothes and makes inventory. The knife is already on the table. She places the cuffs next then the amulet with the dented face and horn engravings. The blouse's pockets prove to house more papers than what she initially felt earlier in the night. She takes them out, trying to make sense of them, but failing. There are symbols upon symbols. Frantic writing if she ever saw one. She manages to make out some of the words, but not enough to formulate a coherent thought to what the script is about. She fishes for the binder and neatly inserts the creased papers with every intention to get back on them.

She shakes the coat and the wallet falls from a hidden pocket and onto the floor. She picks the leather up, looks well worn out, used, old. She finds bills, five, twenty, fifty— a hundred? Doesn't look like a hundred she's seen before. Also, kid's pretty loaded or she's a pickpocket.

She pulls out a driver's license next, finds a scowling, tired face looking back at her.

Samuel Winchester, it reads.

For a second she wonders if John has a brother out there that he named his youngest son after. But it can't be. John's known in the hunter community as being an only child. No family left. No relatives to speak of. Ellen reads the information again, hopes to get an address when the issued date and expiration date has her blinking a few times as she tries to make sense of what she's seeing.

_July 23, 2013 to July 23, 2017._

That can't be right.

She pulls out another ID and gets a driver's license under Dean Winchester's name. Ellen frowns, confused. The face looking back at her is familiar. She knows this boy, this man. Whenever John was around the Roadhouse years ago, he used to get himself wasted and go on and on about Mary and his boys. Sam and Dean. Ellen's lost track of how many times she's seen John weep and apologize to the portrait of him and his sons for his failings since John couldn't do it in real life. She's seen the kid in the picture and that kid looks exactly like a young version of the one shown on the driver's license in her hand. She makes the connection and examines Sam Winchester's license closer, slowly sees the resemblance to the other kid in John's worn photograph who was wearing a light beanie while perched on John's leg, the three of them leaning against the Impala's hood.

But all of them are wrong dates, all of them the wrong ages if their date of births is anything to go by. And why issue a driver's license a good eight years into the future? 2013? She doesn't even believe the world would seriously live past 2010. The Mayans only predicted as far as 2012.

Ellen feels wrong-footed, resumes to pull out what she can from the folds of the leather container. She sees a student license permit to the name of Mary Jane Winchester, same dates, the girl's face, scowling into the camera, very much alike to Sam. But her eyes, her mouth, those are Dean's. She's like a combination of the two of them.

She pulls out a photograph, a bit frayed around the edges, a little  worn, indicating that it's well loved, often looked at.

Ellen's eyes widen, hand coming up to her mouth as soon as her gaze lands on the faces all staring back at her. Her very own. Her fingers tremble as crazy thought after crazy thought begins to form in her mind. The shocked hunter slumps against the edge of the bed, feeling faint and at a complete loss of words. She turns the family portrait over, because it can only be what it is, and finds a neat scrawl written across the back.

The message stops her cold.

_'November 21, 2009. Tomorrow this ends. We go after Lucifer.'_

She needs to call Bobby.

 

* * *

 

 

To anyone wondering what girl!Sam looks like:


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, really sorry for the long wait. I know it's been three weeks since the last update but I had good reason. Mainly, screwy health issues. Now I won't bore you with the gory details and let's get right onto the chapter. To anyone whose been leaving comments and kudos and giving this frustrated writer a chance, thanks so much guys! You have no idea how much that really inspires me to continue this story!

**Three hours earlier**   
**Singer Salvage Auto Yard**   
**6:15 PM**

"Are you safe?" Bobby Singer, hunter and owner of Singer's Salvage and just about the go to person when it comes to anything supernatural harrumphs a confirmation to John Winchester’s inquiry.

The last time they talked may not be with the best of circumstances but he still worries about John and his boys like family, chasing John from years ago with a gun full of buckshot and yelling bloody murder notwithstanding.

Bobby downs a shot of scotch and appreciates the burn down his throat. He’s gonna need more of the piss poor stuff with the way the day’s turning out. “Heard about Jim and Caleb from Jeff. This demon’a yours picking off hunters on a kill list?”

Bobby’s heard enough to conclude demon’s going after people John’s considered friends. He’s under no illusion that he’s managed to slip under the radar. Well, he ain’t getting caught unawares by the balls by no demon that’s for damn sure. He’s just about done with the last of the Devil’s trap on the ceiling among many others. Even the damn King of Hell, if such a thing even exists, won’t be able to so much as touch one grey hair on his head.

Bobby hears Sam and Dean’s voices in the background and has to hold back a dismayed sigh. For a while there he honestly believed Sam finally had a chance at a normal life. Whatever the yellow-eyed sonofabitch wants to do with Sam, he would have done well as far away from the supernatural as possible. Of course the demon just had to kill Sam’s girl. There ain’t nothing worse than losing someone precious to encourage revenge. Bobby’s just grateful still, that it ain’t Dean who burned on the kid’s ceiling.

“It’s not coming for you, Bobby. I’m taking care of it.”

“Now, hold one damn minute. What kind of a stupid ass idea have you got in that head of yours now, John?” Bobby harps at him, knows only too well the same self-sacrificing shit the man tend to pull off when backed in a corner that he sometimes forget he’s got two boys that would be plenty miserable if he manages to get himself killed.

He’s met with silence until John lets out a grunt and reluctantly, like pulling teeth, tells him what he intend to do. While Sam and Dean try to save a family from another supernatural house fire and most likely end up confronting the demon that started this nightmare, John's gonna be meeting up with a demon hell bitch to hand over a fake Colt and what? Hope it doesn't notice? Man has a fucking death wish.

“Sam and Dean understands. We’ve agreed on it.”

Bobby highly doubts that. He slams the glass of scotch against the study, far from assured after hearing the sheer idiocy spewing out of John’s mouth. Jesus Christ. Not only is John risking himself, the boys are nowhere near ready to face the demon their daddy's been chasing all their lives.

“You out of your goddamn mind, idjit?”

“I know what I’m doing, Bobby.”

“Fact that ya would even think this idea o’ yours has a rat’s chance of working make me question your mental health.”

“You say the nicest of things, Singer.”

“Calling it the way I see it, Winchester.”

“Listen,” John cuts in and lets out a weary sigh as Bobby waits for the inevitable. He’s honestly relieved he ain’t nowhere near John right now or he’d be shooting him down with shotgun shells just so Bobby can make himself feel better. "If something were to happen to me—"

“Don’t get your ass killed. I ain’t fathering your kids so you better come back in one piece.”

“Bobby.”

“Don’t even try to sweet talk me into agreeing with your bullshit. You’re pretty, John. But ya ain’t that pretty.” Bobby grumps and allows himself a small smile when he hears John’s exhausted yet amused chuckle.

He sobers up quickly. “I mean it. Your boys need you alive. Don’t fuck it up.”

“I’ll do what I can.” John replies with an a resigned air to him much to Bobby’s discomfort. It’s not a promise but sure is better than nothing.

“I can call up some of my contacts if you need backup.” Bobby not-so-subtly offers to which John shoots down immediately.”

"I can't be responsible for another hunter's death, Bobby. Jim. Caleb. They were good men. Good friends." John goes silent, sounds choked up when he continues. "And you know up to this day I still can't face Ellen with what happened to Bill."

“Hey, how many times do I hafta tell ya that shit ain’t your fault? Demons are as rotten as they come. Stop blaming yaself idjit. I know you know Ellen knows it.”

“I have to go, Bobby.” John says, completely dismissing Bobby’s audition for Bleeding Heart of the Year. He’s good at that. Ignoring anything good people have to say about him and dwelling and stewing on a whole ton of shitty crap.

The line dies before Bobby could get a word in. He looks down at the phone with a scowl and slams it back on the receiver.

Rude idjit.

 

* * *

 

**_At a motel room in Salvation, Iowa…_ **

“Sam, you okay?” John asks worriedly as soon as he enters the room after pocketing the phone and rushes straight to his youngest. Sam’s doubled over in pain on the bed, hands on his head, tugging and pulling on his hair as Dean crowds him like a mother hen.

“I’m okay.” Sam answers, voice catching on a pained grunt and worsening the frantic look that seem to permanently make residence on Dean’s face. “Maybe not.” He grunts with a grimace and clutches Dean to him like a lifeline. His face is all up against Dean’s chest while his brother’s got his arms coiled tightly around Sam, hands massaging all over Sam’s temple and neck, trying to soothe.

Dean looks up to John, wide green eyes pleading. “Dad, we can’t go out there with Sam like this.”

“What happened, Dean? I told you to watch over your brother.” John gripes and Dean can’t help but flinch. Sam’s always been his responsibility and anyone can see that seeing his little brother in pain is a personal torture for him. Four years apart and Dean manages to get even more protective.

“I don’t know. I thought it was a vision but he never hurt this bad. We were going over the plan when he suddenly…” Dean trails off as Sam begins shouting and thrashing he nearly gets an elbow to the face. When his voice picks up again he’s even more frantic, sounding a little ways from an anxiety attack. “Sammy? Sam!”

“He’s seizing.” John doesn’t sound any better either as he pulls Sam to him and down to the floor leaving Dean no choice but to follow. “Sit on his legs. Dean, give me your belt. He’ll need to bite down on something before he hurts himself.”

John’s oldest looks like he’s ten again in the moment, fretting over Sammy’s broken arm after falling off the monkey bars and feeling absolutely useless. His fingers are shaking almost as bad as Sam.

“He’s already hurting, Dad.” Dean chokes out as he struggles with his belt and hands it over to John, careful to keep his weight on his brother.

“Don’t get smart with me boy.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—“

“I know. Hey, hey. Look at me. Your brother’s gonna be okay. Keep it together, Dean.”

They share a look as Dean forces to get his nerves under control and nods. John claps him on the shoulder encouragingly once and goes back to securing Sam.

Dean helps him, despairing eyes fixed on his brother’s red, sweaty face, the straining jaw and the gritted teeth clamped over the leather of Dean’s belt and tries his damn hardest to not upchuck that afternoon’s lunch. He’s never gonna be able to fully keep it together as long as Sam’s not a hundred percent bitchy little brother again.

“Dad, this is bad. Sammy needs a hospital.” Dean says distressed, the unspoken plea loud and clear. They could bail on this now. If it’s between making sure Sam’s gonna be okay or going after the demon or heck, saving strangers, John should know Dean won’t even think twice of choosing his brother over anything or anyone else. Stanford was one too many times for one lifetime.

“We don’t have time for a hospital, Dean. You know that.” John tells him with an apologetic shake of his head. “People are gonna die if we—“

“Dad, come on.” Dean begs, refusing to believe his father's seriously considering— “Its Sam.”

“You said it could be a vision.”

“He’s never had a fit this bad while having it.”

“He’ll be alright. Sammy’s strong, Deano.”

On the floor Sam makes a noise that makes shudders wrack up and down Dean’s spine. Sam sounds like he’s on the receiving end of torture, tears trickling down the corners of his eyes. Dean swallows the bile threatening to rush up his throat. He can’t bear hearing more of this.

“Dad! Please!”

“No, Dean! Your brother’s gonna be okay. And then we’ll go out and finish this once and for all.”

Dean stares aghast, no longer listening as he tries to process the absolute bullshit that came out of Dad's mouth. There’s a storm inside him just waiting to break out. He’s never felt more betrayed than he is right that instant. Not even when he had been dying and Dad couldn’t bother with a message.

“You know what, screw you! Your _son_ could be dying right now and all you still think about is your goddamn revenge!” Dean explodes at the exact same time Sam stops thrashing. Wide green eyes laser focuses on Sam, completely missing John’s reaction and finds his little brother still, his eyes closed, expression lax. Dean forgets how to breathe at what he sees next. Sam’s chest isn’t rising and falling.

“Sammy?” Dean rasps out as he shakes him, then nearly shoves John aside to get to Sam when his brother remains unresponsive. “Sam!” He removes the restraint then proceeds to have his ear pressed against his chest to listen for a heartbeat.

For one heart-stopping moment he can’t hear anything.

Then relief like a physical thing washes over Dean when Sam’s suddenly gulping air like a drowning man and coughing up violently. Dean hastily pulls back and is rewarded with his brother’s half-lidded, confused stare trained up at him. “Dean?” he asks, turning wide-eyed like he can't believe Dean's there.

Dean’s answer is pulling his brother to a bone-crushing embrace. “Oh god, Sammy. I’m so glad you’re okay.” He’s close to manfully crying tears but can’t bring himself to care at the moment. Sam for his part clutches at him like he's afraid if he didn't hold him tight enough Dean would disappear.

The motel room door opens and closes but neither brother realizes, too wrapped up in each other to notice.

They stay like that for a good minute until Dean feels like his ribs are creaking from the intensity of Sam's embrace. Dean's big brother radar goes off when Sam won't let go. And— is his little brother crying?

"Sammy? Hey, hey what's wrong?" he asks, alarmed. "You hurting anywhere little brother?"

Sam freezes up in the hug, like he's just realizing and processing how he's clinging to Dean as if he's forgotten they are two grown ass adults. It doesn't take long before Sam starts squirming in his hold.

“Dude, we’re totally in chick flick territory.” Sam says, an obvious effort to sound like the bitchy little brother he is. He's doing a fairly decent job really if it were not for the thickness in his voice and the sniffles giving him away.

Dean looks ready to swat him upside the head. It kind of stings to know Sam feels the need to pretend when it's just the two of them. He lets go of the crushing hug nevertheless and runs his hands all over his brother assessing for any kind of lasting damage. “You feeling alright?”

“Uhh, yeah I think so. I mean, my head still hurts a bit and my mouth tastes funny.” Sam ducks his head, wipes at his eyes then squints at his brother. “Dean, why are you sitting on me?”

Dean only realizes then that he’s fully seated on Sam’s lap and gets flustered for reasons he refuses to inspect closer. “Like I had any choice when your ginormous legs were kicking up a storm. I didn’t wanna get hit in the balls, bitch.”

Sam's snort is automatic, then he looks around the empty room with a questioning frown. “Where’s Dad?”

“He went out.” Dean replies flatter than a wet noodle though he still manages to look caught between anger and guilt. “Come on, up you get.” He pulls himself off Sam’s lap and helps steer his brother to the bed. Dean does a rubdown along Sam’s arms. Kid’s still spasming like crazy. 

"Did— something happen?" Sam asks, voice still on the edge of hoarse.

Dean makes a grumpy sound as Sam’s back hits the propped pillows, all fluffed up by Dean like Sam’s a toddler again. “You mean besides you making a perfect impression of brain cancer stage six?”

“There’s no such thing as stage six." Sam huffs at him. "And we already checked. Unnecessarily I might add. Not dying from cancer. It's just visions Dean."

“Don’t you make it sound like it’s not a big deal.” Dean says heatedly, a tick to his jaw as he sits by the edge of the puke-colored bed sheets.

“That’s because it’s not.” Sam says, trying to sound reassuring but only gets an unimpressed glare for his trouble. He takes hold of Dean’s hand and gives it a squeeze. Normally Dean would pull it back, no chick flick moments he always says, but he lets Sam do what he wants without any incoming joke. It only serves to worry Sam further. “I got it under control, Dean.”

Sam’s attempt at comfort fails spectacularly when Dean gets angrier and snaps at him. “You call what happened earlier under control?!”

Sam's lips thin and he retorts stubbornly.“I do.” He’s always hated seeing his brother twisted up over anything that has to do with him. Like he’s failing Dean somehow. “It's something that's happened before. I told you I can handle—"

“You stopped breathing, Sam!”

Sam stares, stunned. There’s silence until, “What!”

“Your heart stopped. I thought you died!”

Sam’s mouth works but no word is forthcoming until he settles on his brother’s name, as per usual when crap proves to be too much and Dean’s name is the only thing that makes sense.

“Why did Dad went out, Dean?” Sam manages after a minute of tense silence. When the shock of knowing this curse could actually kill him subsides, he can’t understand why their father would leave. “If you thought I was dying, why did he up and left?”

His brother won’t talk let alone look at him.

“Dean!”

“I snapped at him, alright?” Dean says finally, shoulders tight and fist clenched on one thigh.

“You..? Snapped at dad?” Sams asks dubiously.

Dean wants to feel offended by the note of doubt in Sam's voice, but then the reminder of the night Sam left for Stanford, of all the harsh words meant to cut and bleed thrown between them born out of fear and pain and that sense of betrayal rears it's ugly head out in the open again and Dean knows he's the last person on earth to expect unquestioned loyalty and belief from Sam. At least when it comes to John Winchester.

“I thought you were dying.” Dean says, one hand rubbing over his mouth as he lets out a heavy exhale. “You were seizing, Sam. Your eyeballs were up to here and I just… I begged him to bail. To get you to the hospital. Screw the plan. And he looks at me,” he glances at Sam unable to continue.

Dean can practically hear the cogs turning in his brother's head as he makes the connection. He watches as Sam breathes through his nose, an obvious effort to keep himself calm, fists clenched, knuckles white. “He chose the demon over me, did he?”

“Sam, I’m sure Dad didn’t really—“

“And there you go again, Dean. Always defending Dad. Justifying all the crap he throws at us!”

Dean can’t formulate a comeback and settles on Sam’s name instead, the look in his eyes pleading for Sam to not let what happened blow out of proportion. Sam looks rightfully indignant. It's in his stance. He wants to lash out, but the more he looks at his brother’s face, the more the anger melts away.

Dean seems to have aged a good ten years, is what Sam realizes as he takes a proper look at his brother. Not surprising, given what he said happened. For a while there Dean must have thought Sam was dead for good. Sam knows all too well the feeling of looming dread, of loss, he's lived with it all his life with Mom, then Jessica. He's learned to accept those losses but when he thinks of Dean dying, no longer in his life to be a pain in the ass big brother, of how he very nearly lost him in Nebaraska, of the things he just saw in his head-- Sam lets out a deep breath and reels his temper in. Dean looks properly traumatized. The experience must have emotionally exhausted him no matter how much he claims to be adverse to feelings. Sam could never say no to his brother when he’s open like this. None of the blustering and macho crap.

And to be perfectly honest, Sam feels just as exhausted. Feels twisted and knotted up without hope of ever getting straightened out, like nothing's ever gonna be the same again.

“You know what? Fine. Whatever. I don’t care.” Sam huffs and waves a hand in dismissal as he jostles his brother with his right leg playfully, hoping to distract him from thoughts of Dad. The distraction isn't just for Dean but for himself too.

Sam has to force back a smile and pretend annoyance when Dean grumbles about pointy knees and being too old for footsie ya great big girl.

“Sammy?” Dean eventually asks.

“Yeah?”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, Dean.”

“You’re kind of still pale and twitchy, dude.”

“It'll get better.” Sam replies, voice clear and steady, or at least he tries to be. Dean catches his trembling fingers, expression begging to differ. He tries to pull it back, but Dean’s hold is like an iron-clad grip. “Dean, let go.”

“Not until you tell me what’s got you so shaken up.” Dean shoots back, green eyes imploring.

_I’m proud of us._

The words resonate in his heart, in his very soul. 

Sam screws his eyes shut and shakes his head, resolutely trying to get rid of the image that has been burned to his retinas. Now that he’s got nothing else to focus on, his mind treacherously latches on the next worse thing. The nightmare of his big brother dying in his arms. It feels like a memory, like it’s something that’s already happened to him, something that he’s always actively trying to forget.

There was nothing but blood and tears and those four words to accompany him every waking moment. The only thing that kept him going as he holds on to the hope of getting his brother back. His gaze finds focus as the shaking register and he finds Dean, no blood, not dying. Real. Alive.

“Sammy what did you see?” Dean asks worriedly when Sam continues to unknowingly stew in his fears.

He doesn't want to tell Dean whatever it was he saw, because Sam refuses to call it a premonition of the future, yet at the same time he’s increasingly getting desperate to not be alone in the knowledge. He needs Dean to be there and tell him it’s gonna be alright.

Sam can’t almost say the words, scared shitless that if he gives it voice it’s gonna be reality. “I saw you die. And there was nothing I could do to stop it.”

 

* * *

 

Dean stares at Sam in silence, the confession catching him off guard. Dean doesn't fear death. Not really. At one point he's even made peace with the thought of dying when he got electrocuted back in Nebraska, and with the way their lives are, Dean's accepted that reaching his thirties is very unlikely to happen. His little brother was already able to prevent one premonition from coming true where Dean was supposed to get shot in the head by the Miller kid. How often was Sam going to be able to keep on doing that?

Truth is, he worries not for himself but for Sam. He's already seen his brother's potential for crazy, fucked up shit when Dean's life is on the line. Just like what happened with the faith healer. Up until the present there's still residual guilt over the person who died in Dean's place. But Sam didn't care then for some poor shmuck dropping dead. Because Dean lived and that was all that really mattered to his brother.

Dean reflects on that and finds, not surprising, that he'd be just as uncaring for anything else as long as he could keep Sammy safe and alive. He'd seriously just thought the family and the demon and even Dad irrelevant for a second back there if it meant rushing Sam to the hospital and making sure he's okay.

It should probably worry Dean just how ready he is to drop everything and everyone else for Sam, but can't imagine his choices going any other way.

Sammy always comes first.

"What do you mean you saw me die?" Dean finally asks, fingers closing around Sam's pulse point, too fast for Dean's liking. "You mean like with the Miller kid?"

Sam jerkily shakes his head. "No, didn't feel like that. It's like, with Max it felt like it was something that I could prevent. That it didn't really happen yet. I just had to stop him to save you."

Dean lets that process. "What makes this different then?"

"I can't really explain it, Dean." Sam admits with a frustrated groan. He places a free hand against his chest, curls it to a fist and starts beating himself with it. He feels something painful coiled tight around his chest, his whole being for that matter that he can't give a name to. 

The worrying action doesn't go unnoticed by Dean. "That's it. I'm taking you to the nearest hospital." He says as he moves to get up but Sam stops him with a hand on his wrist.

"Dean, no. It's okay. I'm fine." Sam rushes out, belatedly realizing how hitting his chest like that might look to his brother. 

"You really expect me to believe that, Sam? Cause from where I'm standing you need medical attention. You just had a seizure, Jesus H. Christ. And you're shaking like a goddamn leaf."

"What do you want from me, Dean? I saw you die. In my arms! And I couldn't do a damn thing about it. I'm sorry if I can't shake it off easily." Sam retorts, hazel eyes misting with tears that just about stabs Dean right there in the fucking heart.

Dean feels all the fight go out of him. "Fuck. I'm sorry. You're right. I'm sorry, Sammy."

Sam pulls his brother back to him, looking so broken in the moment that Dean can't do nothing but follow with the least minimal complaint. Every inch of him is screaming to comfort his little brother, to throw his arms around him and rock him back and forth just like when Sammy was six and for several nights had woken up screaming from a nightmare from the Shritga attack. He settles for cupping Sam's cheeks and bringing their foreheads together. God, seems like forever since the last time they were able to do this. "Sammy, come on. I'm here. I'm not dead, alright? You're not gonna get rid of me that easy, baby brother."

"It felt real. There was too much blood. For a while there I thought—" Sam buries his face against his brother's neck the second Dean wraps him up in a hug. He can't quite suppress a choked sob from escaping. "It scared the crap out me, Dean."

"You're gonna be okay." Dean soothes, rubbing his hands gingerly across Sam's back. "We're gonna be okay. As long as I'm here Sammy, nothing bad's gonna happen."

 

* * *

 

John returns to the motel room and finds his boys waiting on the bed, sitting too close for his peace of mind. But John reluctantly lets it go, especially when Dean wouldn’t even look at him and Sam’s so obviously trying to be civil. He appreciates the effort. He’s already gonna be ashamed of how he's acted for months to come.

He hands over a water bottle which Dean quickly snatches before he could get it to Sam. Alright. So he deserved that.

“How are you feeling, Sammy?” John asks nevertheless because he isn't going to be cowed by his own son even if he’s already seeing the two of them ganging up on him for the foreseeable future. 

“Fine.” Sam answers, and then opens up about his vision with a name that stops John cold. “Dad, you know a hunter named Ellen?”

He whirls around and looks at his sons gravely, at Sam moreso. “How’d you come by that name?”

“Meg.” Sam says as John stares at him uncomprehending. “In the vision I just had.  She called the woman Ellen. She’s got a daughter. Jo, I think was her name.”

John curses and looks ready to fly off the hinges with the news. “You’re saying it's going after her? You’re sure?”

“Yes, Dad. I’m sure. And there's more than one demon." Sam says, one hand coming up to rub at his forehead. Dean’s readily there kneading at his brother's temple.

“I’m fine, Dean. Just a headache.”

“Just a headache isn’t really assuring, Sammy.” Dean says, hovering.

“There’s also another girl. Younger. I think she's hurt.” Sam resumes. "I saw her reflection in a mirror."

“Mirror?” Dean asks, suddenly invested in what Sam’s saying enough to tone down the hovering. “Like what? Bloody Mary kind of deal?”

“No, Dean.” Sam’s bitchface makes an appearance. “Like, she… I was looking into the mirror? I think I was seeing things through her eyes. Like I was inside her.”

“Something you wanna tell us about, Sam?” Dean raises one fine eyebrow. The inappropriate dick.

Sam shoves a hand to his brother’s face. “Get your mind out of the gutter, dude." He looks back to John who's shooting Dean disapproving eyes before focusing back on his youngest. “I think she was just waking up? She seemed confused where she was and she was covered in blood. I felt her wobble her way over to a small table as if I was really there. And then I saw this.” Sam says fingering the amulet on his brother’s chest. “I couldn’t be mistaken. She had the exact same one Dean. Down to the dent… here. Yeah, exactly on that spot.”

“I'm not really following, Sammy.” Dean says with a frown, not understanding where the conversation is going. He glances up at John and finds him looking equally as lost. 

Gaze trained on his father and brother, Sam gives voice to what has been bothering him since he saw the girl in his vision and heard her train of thought. "She kept calling out for a name." Her mind was only ever intent on a particular name. As if that name gave the sole meaning to her existence. "She kept calling out for Dean."

* * *

 

"Singer Salvage. State your business, I ain’t got all day.” Bobby greets upon the fourth ring, tone as grumpy as ever Ellen feels some of her nerves uncoil after hearing the voice of a good friend. The past hour has been draining to say the least.

“You need to get out more often you grumpy old man.”

“Ellen?”

“Who else?”

“I’ve been trying to reach you all night, woman.”

“We can’t all be sitting in wait for our phones to start ringing, Bobby. I was busy.” Ellen replies with a huff. 

“Listen, you, Jo and that little girl or any one's in the Roadhouse right now are not safe. You got a demon proofed wine cellar there Harvelle. Put it to good use. At least until this shitstorm blows over."

Bobby’s words has Ellen’s spine going rigid. “What are you talking about?” she asks in alarm. Then backtracks, open mouthed. “Bobby, how do you know about Mary Jane?”

“That the kid’s name?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have two girls without me knowing?”

“Ha. Ha. Answer the question, Singer.”

"It's Sam." There’s another grunting, then grumbling followed by the sound of running water. “Don’t tell a soul, but the kid’s been having visions, premonitions if you will, and he saw you tonight.”

“Sam’s psychic?” Well, that— actually might explain a few things about her guest.

“Seems like it.” Bobby confirms. “John just found out. He ain’t too happy with it. Looks like the boys have been keeping it a secret.”

“Yeah, when’s John ever happy with anything?" Ellen acquises, then haltingly ventures. "Sam. You said he saw us in this vision of his?”

“S’what I was told.” Bobby replies, asks. “You wanted me for something?”

“Yes, it’s about the girl and it's not something we can simply talk about on the phone. Got some things I need you to look over too.” She pauses, then cautiously adds, not sure if she’d like an answer or not. “Bobby, did they say what was happening to us in this vision?”

“Didn’t get the specifics but it can’t be good. John just said I make sure to reach you and give out the warning, get yaself safe. Can't have ya ending up like Jim and Caleb.”

Ellen's almost afraid to ask. "What happened?"

"Demon got to them. Throats slit."

Ellen grimaces as she tries to process Jim and Caleb’s death. Damn it. The hunter community is a tight knit group despite so called lone wolves like John appearing every once in a while. She feels the loss like any other friend. She resolutely does not think about Bill.

"Ellen, I know for a fact demons ain't stupid enough to come sauntering to an establishment crawling with hunters."

"They don't." Ellen answers somberly. She could just smack herself. "I closed early tonight. Not a single hunter is in the Roadhouse."

"Sonofa-- now, why in holy hell would you do that?"

"I got my reasons, Singer." Ellen replies as her gaze turns to the unconscious girl on her bed. "And how was I to know demons are coming?"

Brushing a stray hair from the girl's sweaty forehead, Ellen leans forward to take her hand relieved to find out she's no longer burning up. The bleeding and healing seems to have stopped altogether as well. She’s gonna be needing another change of clothes however. The one she’s currently wearing is once again caked in blood. 

Mary Jane’s been having nightmares. The room’s a mess from whatever ability the kid’s got, Ellen nearly got brained by a lampshade from trying to help. Kid’s telekinetic or something. She's just thankful Jo didn’t get to see any of that or she would have freaked.

With the crazy theories she’s been having for the past hour, Ellen supposes that if that shit is real, the supernatural powers could be genetic.

“Point taken. But demons got wind of the Colt. They're afraid. But very pissed.” Bobby answers with a heavy sigh.  

“The Colt? I thought that was just myth?”

“Not anymore. John took it from Elkins. Guy’s dead last I heard. Vampires. So now demons are threatening to kill anyone that’s ever had any contact with John if he doesn’t hand it over."

"Bad idea. No, worst idea. John can't hand something that powerful over to the enemy." Ellen gravely points out. 

“He ain’t. Idjit’s got a stupid ass idea of handing over a fake and hoping for the best. But that was before Sam started seizing with visions of the future.”

“Seizing?”

“Yeah. And from what I heard it was bad.”

“Does that happen often?” Ellen asks concerned as she goes about preparing, throwing necessities into a duffel bag to bring down the wine cellar. Then again, if Sam’s visions were life threatening she doubts she’d have been able to look at a picture of him at age thirty one. 

“Don’t know. Anyway, John's got a change of heart. I called Bose and Janklow. They're bringing in the family targeted by the same demon that killed John's wife to my place. John and his boys are on his way to you. If they're not already there."

Ellen hates the feeling of dread in her stomach. That, and the notion of facing John again after so many years. She's moved past actively blaming him for Bill's death, but she's still angry and doesn't quite trust herself to be around John and not punch him in the face at least once. Ellen was supposed to be through with all of that. But here she was again getting caught up in Winchester business. 

Jesus. Ellen realizes terrified. If her Joanna Beth and John's boys meet- could Mary Jane be some kind of granddaughter from the future? Would that be the reason why the kid seems to be familiar with her even though she's never met her before? She also had been calling for Dee. Ellen had asked if Dee was her dad and, well shit, the photo, Dean Winchester's arm around her baby girl, now there's a sobering thought. 

"John's coming? What for? Thought you said that we all gotta do is lay low and we're good."

"No, that became the plan when you weren't answering your phone. I've tried contacting other hunters hoping they were in the Roadhouse but most of them were only reachable when I guess as you said, you had everyone leave for the night. Seems there's something jamming up the signal in your location, I don't know what." Bobby grumps. "You were supposed to come here. I've fortified the house. But since we ain't got that choice now, you gotta make sure you're safe. Worse comes to worst, them Winchesters will deal with the assholes paying a visit." There's the unmistakable clink of glass before she hears Bobby sigh wearily. "I don't like any of this. One demon's bad enough as it is, but more than one?"

"Did Sam say how many?" Ellen grunts as she hefts the duffel bag over one shoulder.

“He's positive there was at least three." Bobby replies, worry and fear bleeding through the line.

"Jesus." Ellen gasps, feels her knees go weak she had to visibly restrain herself from slumping to the floor. She's stopped believing in a higher power since Bill's passing but if there was a God out there, she's about ready to believe in anything if it meant there's a fighting chance they come out of this night alive. She's just about to tell Bobby she's got to go when the only light in the room flickers and Bobby’s voice is suddenly coming in and out like static by her ear.

The line goes dead. Ellen’s head turns to the direction of the bedroom door as she hears a crash downstairs followed by Ash’s scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... that happened. I'm really anxious about this chapter since it's the first time I've written pre-apocalypse Sam and Dean. Like, I've written in small doses Supernatural fics but they're usually after Season 1 or 2 and the codependcy is just... really overflowing. Season 1 was still the uhhh "reconnecting" phase so to say, so I'm not sure at all if I'm pulling them off just fine? Really do hope didn't just manage to butcher characterization. Also, John. *twiddles fingers*

**Author's Note:**

> Like it? Hate it? Please do let me know. I'd LOVE to hear what you guys think of the story so far. It'll only take a moment of your time. Thank you :)


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